But if we absorb the full counsel of Scripture and acknowledge that God sincerely loves us and gave us a whole world of gifts and joys, we discover many secular things we love are actually sacred. I was on Voxer with five dear girlfriends yesterday, and my beautiful friend Sarah reminded us of “the ministry of a new haircut.” Oh, my stars and gardens, yes. It’s like a rebirth. We made a quick list of various ministries that buoy our spirits and quicken our steps: an old pair of comfy jeans, a crisp pair of new jeans, a pedicure, Spotify, freshly cut grass, a new bra (this ministry is so real, you guys), toes in sand, chips and salsa, a career accomplishment, a really outstanding concert, chopped onions and garlic in olive oil, a fuzzy blanket, a squishy baby, a new reading chair.
This world is hard and scary, and it is also phenomenal and gorgeous and thrilling and amazing. Reader, there is a middle place, holy ground, where we learn to embrace the fasting and the feast, for both are God ordained. There is a time to press into sacrifice, restraint, self-denial, deferment. There is also a time to open wide our arms to adventure, laughter, fulfillment, gladness. A Christian in tune with God’s whole character neither regards herself as too important or too unworthy to enjoy this life. Yes, we are part of God’s plan to heal the world, but we are also sons and daughters in the family. We are not just the distributors of God’s abundant mercies but also their recipients.
Back to Ethiopia. As I mentioned, we were working with an incredibly fragile community plagued with food insecurity, sickness, and economic collapse. These were not frivolous people with the luxury of outside interests. We lived in two entirely different worlds, one marked by privilege and one by poverty.
And yet.
Each home we visited had at least one beautiful piece of fabric hanging on the wall. Even the most humble hosts offered coffee in lovely cups. Kids, really vulnerable kids, screeched and laughed as they played soccer up and down the streets. The whole town vibrated with Ethiopian music, Teddy Afro, the national favorite, aggressive and blaring and always too loud. The town square practically sizzled with the spicy smells of berbere and tibs and doro wat.
In other words, they were also into beauty, food, fun, and music.
Of course they were.
God gave humanity many healing tools, and they exist far beyond circumstances. Some of them are traditionally spiritual: prayer, communion, sanctuary, Scripture. The sacraments have always brought us back home to God. But so many others are tactile, physical, of soil and earth, flesh and blood. Some are covert operators of grace, unlikely sources of joy, like a beautiful piece of art, a song, a perfectly told story around a dinner table, a pool party with friends and margaritas. These also count, they matter, they are to be consumed and enjoyed with gusto, despite suffering, even in the midst of suffering.
God gives us both Good News and good times, and neither cancels out the other. What a wonderful world, what a wonderful life, what a wonderful God.
I hate people who are not serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.1
— OSCAR WILDE
CHAPTER 4
GROCERY STORE THEOLOGY
Look, I realize I put five children in this family on purpose. I did not accidentally end up with an enormous family against my will. And I also realize that this many dependents requires more of everything—more money, more work, more energy, more cell phone tracker apps (I am a laid-back mama, but I will track a phone so hard). This is part and parcel of Big Family Life, and I’m down.
The only thing I wish my multiple kids did less was eat.
Y’all, they want to eat every single day. Several times!
If you could see how much food five children and their friends go through, you would swear on a stack of Bibles they all had tapeworms. It is actually insane. They deplete my pantry by 30 percent within fifteen minutes of a grocery store run. It is like living with savage wilderness people who come across a fresh animal carcass.
This is partly why I loathe the grocery store. I realize people who love food as much as I do typically swoon over shopping, but not this home cook. I’ve let the fridge and pantry whittle down to half a package of rice and an old bottle of fish sauce before finally dragging my butt to the store to fend off starvation. Why is it so hard? Wasn’t I just here? Are malnourished robbers breaking in at night and eating our food? It seems physically impossible these people devoured all the food I bought just one minute ago. There has to be a different explanation than simply my kids demolishing it all like champion competitive eaters.
But I also despise the grocery store because of all its horsecrappery.
I, like all reasonable and decent citizens, traverse the exact same grocery store path every trip. This is just civilized. I have a couple of friends who shop helter-skelter—different starting places, different routes, random patterns—and I’ve recommended them for intervention. Listen, it’s a free country, so I respect your right to start with the middle aisles and end with the perimeter (I guess), but do the same thing every time, for the love of the land. This seems like baseline grocery store theology.
Anyhow, I begin my odyssey in produce. I immediately identify which shoppers I am now going to awkwardly encounter for the next hour. The, say, four of us have launched our journeys at the same time, and we will now follow a nearly identical path through the store. Right when you think you’ve broken free from the pack, one of them turns down Aisle 7 from the opposite end: We meet again, Lady in Green.
This is approximately one thousand times worse if it is someone I know. Because now we are required to dialogue on each passing, and what really is there to say after the first grocery store conversation?
Oh, spaghetti sauce, I see. What would we do without Prego, amirite?
Your basket is looking full! Which, I guess, makes sense. Because of the shopping.
Hey again! I don’t usually buy this crap cereal. This is for a class project. (Lies.)
Criminy! How are we maintaining an identical pace through thirty thousand square feet? This is the only time I will disrupt my route, to untangle from the socially awkward prison of repetitive small talk. This is the introvert’s nightmare, and I am not above dismantling my orderly system to escape another eight-second discussion on the price of wheat bread. So I skip the dairy section and go straight to paper goods this time . . . what is this, the Spanish Inquisition?
Then there is the hypocritical dance required every time I grocery shop. If you’ve been around me the last few years, you know I’m pretty committed to real food and whole ingredients, and I’ll pay double for organic in a hot minute. Our meat is carefully sourced, and I cook almost everything from scratch. I forced my whole family to watch Food, Inc. and Super Size Me, and we listened to Forks Over Knives on audio on a road trip once (the Hatmakers know how to party).